


all we have to do is start

by spektri



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: F/F, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Just gals being pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spektri/pseuds/spektri
Summary: Terry takes Monet out on a date.





	all we have to do is start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kahvikummitus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahvikummitus/gifts).



> so my friend has written me like 57 gifts and i've gifted them nothing? what kind of a friendship is that? then they started reading x-factor and lamented on the lack of terry/monet fics and i SAW MY OPENING AND I TOOK IT 
> 
> no but really. there's way not enough terry/monet content. 
> 
> also this is totally spoiler-free, no references to much at anything that happens in the comics, i just wanted to write something nice for these girls because they've suffered enough 
> 
> also this is just... just pure fluff. definitely self-serving lesbian happiness

Monet St Croix is beautiful, powerful, and rich. She was the first in line when God handed out abilities to those who were doomed enough to have born as mutants. She’s smart, and confident, and she takes no shit from anybody. Literally  _ everyone _ is out of her league, a fact that most of X-Factor Investigations are begrudgingly aware of, and therefore only brave enough to pine after her from afar.

That’s why Terry is almost certain she heard wrong when Monet’s answer to her half-casual, heat-of-the-moment “Want to go out for dinner tonight?” is a simple, unmistakable and almost instant  _ yes _ . 

“Sorry, what?” 

Monet shoots her that unimpressed Look that should absolutely be trademarked. “You heard me, Cassidy,” she says. “When are you picking me up?” 

Terry stares at her a moment longer, unblinking, then very insistently blinking, until finally she gets her brain working well enough to say, “Eight. Here?” and after Monet’s nodded her approval and fixed her attention to the magazine she read throughout their  _ if-it-can-be-called-that  _ conversation, Terry turns on her heels and skips the stairs two at a time up to her own room.

She’d scream if she didn’t care about the windows—it  _ is  _ winter, after all—so instead she settles on fist-pumping the air and whispering “yeah!” to herself. 

Who would have thought it only took laying your pride on the line to ask Monet out? Definitely not  _ Guido _ . Whatever this date would turn out to be—and Terry tries not to think about that too much, to not wish for too much because that has  _ never  _ turned out well—she would have fun holding  _ that  _ one over him. Or maybe that would be a bit too mean. She would  _ definitely  _ keep it ready in her back pocket though, were Guido to get a bit too much, a bit too in-her-face, like he sometimes tends to. 

When Terry’s gloated by herself long enough she turns to the more pressing matters, namely the fact eight o’clock is only two hours away, she has  _ not _ made reservations, and her date outfit situation is a bit… tragic, to put it kindly. 

Well, Terry has a few assets to go with her gumption, so she dials the number of the fanciest restaurant she dares to call, and when a tired-sounding maître d’ answers, it only takes her a moment of well-pitched sweet-talking to get them a decent table. That sorted she turns to her wardrobe, now with renewed confidence: no amount of dolling up would impress Monet more than what she just achieved. 

Even so, she turns over her whole closet in a desperate attempt to find something worthy of this momentous occasion. It’s futile. If it were for any other occasion, Terry would have been on hands and knees in Monet’s doorstep, begging her to borrow something of hers. This time that won’t be an option. Because she’s desperate, she decides to ask Rahne instead—there’s little chance she would have anything fancy enough, and even less that it would fit her, but if needs must… 

When she opens her door she is almost smacked on the face with a dress bag. She takes one step backwards to stare at it in shock, first wondering if Layla’s been around  _ knowing stuff  _ again, then notices the small yellow post-it note. Stepping forward again, she squints a little to read the unsurprisingly neat handwriting:

_ I’ve seen the contents of your closet. Wear this. Trust me. -M _

And trust she does. 

  
  


\--- 

  
  


The cab is already waiting outside, and Terry, dressed in the magnificent gold-and-black pantsuit Monet picked out for her, is nervous enough that her thoughts keep going to the bottle of wine in the office kitchen’s cupboard. She’s not  _ going  _ to—there wouldn’t be a better way to ruin tonight, after all—but her jitters are intense enough for her to miss the calming buzz it would give her.

_ That  _ craving is quickly replaced by something quite else when Monet, in a long figure-hugging burgundy dress descends the stairs in exactly the kind of effortless flair and elegance Terry would have been stupid not to have expected. She swallows hard as she looks at her, so gorgeous and smiling, and smiles too. 

“I expect you’ve actually put thought into this?” Monet asks—no,  _ demands _ —when she’s on the same level as Terry. Literally: they’re the same height, which Terry can’t stop being amazed about, since the way Monet carries herself seems like she’d be at least an inch taller, often more than that. 

The fact she often floats everywhere for no real reason may factor into that, as well.

“Don’t worry, M,” Terry says, “I’m taking you to the finest Burger King on the block.”

Monet almost laughs at that; the sound that comes out is a short non-giggle, but it makes Terry’s heart jump nonetheless. “I would  _ literally  _ maim you for that.”

“But you’d keep me alive? You must really like me,” Terry says, teasing, smiling uncontrollably. And Monet smiles too, a little crooked and smug, but also genuinely amused. 

“For now,” she says, as they set out.

And in those few moments all trepidation Terry had has melted away. It’s still the same Monet, with the same sense of humour and personality and  _ everything _ that might seem daunting from afar, but she and Terry, they have been friends for a while already—Terry is  _ past  _ that. She has no reason to act the giddy school-girl she was just moments ago: Monet, regardless of how she sometimes behaves,  _ already likes her _ .

The next step is to find out if she likes her the way Terry wants her to.

  
  


\- - -

 

 

The dinner is  _ nice _ . Terry can’t claim she is at her best in a setting as fancy as all that, but Monet is like a fish in water, and the confidence and ease seeps into Terry, too. Besides, conversation flows as well as it ever has, and the food is  _ amazing _ , and judging by the red creeping on Monet’s cheeks, the wine’s top-notch, as well. And Terry can’t stop thinking about the impressed, almost  _ shocked _ expression on Monet’s face when the driver pulled over in front of the restaurant.

“How did you—?” Monet had asked, of course well in the know of the exclusiveness of the restaurant’s clientele, but cut herself off before finishing: “Ohhhh, you used your  _ songbird  _ abilities, didn’t you? Sneaky bitch.”

That was a compliment if Terry had ever heard one, and she had no problem admitting to the fact. Monet gave Terry a look that would have accompanied a high-five with almost anyone else.

And as they’re finishing up, and Terry asks the waiter to bring their bill, it’s her time to shine again. The bill lays between the two, and Terry looks at Monet as innocently as she can muster. As expected, Monet’s face falls a bit, the hard annoyance of someone too used to this locking on. 

“You’re expecting me to pay,” she says, voice flat. “Of course. You  _ couldn’t _ afford a thing like this. You’re lucky I—”

Terry can’t hold it in: she laughs, a little loud, maybe there  _ is _ some nervousness left in her—and the laughter isn’t helped by Monet’s expression, now shifted into confusion and annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” Terry says, meaning it. “I couldn’t help it. No, I’m not making you pay, I asked  _ you _ out, didn’t I?” It would truly be poor etiquette to choose the most expensive restaurant in ten-mile radius and then make another pay for it. Well—to make the other person on the date pay for it. She fishes out her wallet from her purse, and unable to help it, pulls out what she feels is the  _ pièce de résistance  _ of the whole evening, precariously between her forefinger and thumb, on eye-level between the two.

“You really  _ are _ a sneaky bitch,” Monet says, her voice pleasingly breathless, and again Terry knows it: she has impressed her. Terry places Madrox’s Visa on the tray left by the waiter, who soon comes to pick it up. The two can’t hold their laughter, at that point: even Monet cracks up, and it’s a beautiful sound, an unraveled Monet. 

She didn’t have to even  _ work _ to get it: Madrox had gotten sloppy with his belongings. Terry says as much, and Monet laughs more.

They’re still giggling as they get out of the restaurant, walking side-by-side on the pavement.

“You don’t mind walking back to the headquarters?” Terry asks. She has the cab company’s number saved on her phone, in case, but the air is surprisingly crisp and refreshing, and she really enjoys the way Monet’s shoulder brushes against hers now and then.

“As long as we’re not attacked on the way,” Monet says. “For once I don’t actually feel like beating anyone up.”

Now  _ that’s _ a compliment if Monet’s ever given one. Terry’s heart beats hard. She knows the night is a success, she’s known it ever since she saw Monet in her dress, but this absolutely proves her right. The words embolden her, and without thinking about it too much, she takes Monet’s hand in hers; Monet raises an eyebrow at her, a silent,  _ really? _ but doesn’t take it away. As they walk, neither of them in any hurry, they slowly get closer and closer.  
  


 

\- - -

  
  


“Well, Theresa, you’ve duly impressed me,” Monet says. They stand in front of her room, because Terry decided to take the role of a gentlewoman and walk her to her door, even if they are, in all intents and purposes,  _ flatmates _ . “Fine wining and dining, even finer company…” She smiles, and her eyes are so soft Terry thinks for a moment she might melt right there. She doesn’t. Monet smiles, and then, very quietly, she says, “Thank you.”   


That’s Terry’s cue, and she would be an idiot not to notice it. She leans forward, not fast, not slow, seeking approval in Monet’s eyes but finds it in the upturned corner of her mouth instead; gently she presses her lips against Monet’s, and kisses her. She tastes of wine, and Terry wants more, but it’s not about the wine, it’s about Monet: it’s about her soft lips and warm skin and her wit and hard nature.

Terry touches Monet’s face, first light with his fingertips and then cupping her jaw, and angles herself to kiss again and even deeper: Monet follows suit, and it doesn’t take long for the kiss to be a little less  _ good-night  _ and more  _ let’s-spend-the-night _ . Like that, slotted against each other comfortably, they must kiss for minutes—it’s a wonder nobody’s interrupted them—until Terry stops herself.

She catches her breath for a second, looking at Monet and her red lips and quizzical eyes; she’s folded her arms, like expecting a follow-through, or an explanation.

“Well,” Terry says, “I really hope you’ll call me.”

And with that, she leaves Monet behind, and gets to her room, and falls on her bed with the stupidest, happiest grin on her face, the stupidest, happiest feeling in her heart.

**Author's Note:**

> madrox who?


End file.
